


Sentimentalities

by Kirrae



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Because that's how assassin's do everything, Fluff and Crack, Immortal!Altair, It's fluffy in a kind of morbid way though, M/M, valentines day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:31:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirrae/pseuds/Kirrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ezio first told him of the holiday, Altair had thought it was the most idiotic display of depravity he'd ever heard of. And he had lived through much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentimentalities

**Author's Note:**

> Please ignore the logistical nightmare that this story would be. I don’t have the time or energy to put into making it somewhat believable as something that would be possible right now. So, I freely admit to my laziness.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

When Ezio first told him of the holiday, Altair had thought it was the most idiotic display of depravity he’d ever heard of. And he had lived through much. The smile on the young italian’s face though, as he realized he’d have someone to celebrate with, had made Altair feel terrible for bashing the holiday. If a _day_ could make Ezio that happy, who was Altair to complain? There was little enough joy in the life of an assassin as it was. So he decided to do some research - mostly through the apple, but he’d occasionally ask the younger a question or two. 

“Mostly it’s a celebration of lovers, despite the fact that it was supposed to be a religious feast day. Something about the man refusing to let one of the Roman Emperor’s rule against marriage. I’m a bit fuzzy on the details, but I hope you get the general idea, caro mio.” 

Altair doesn’t have the heart to tell Ezio that the holiday originated in the 5th century to celebrate two martyrs and that the day had nothing to do with love until the 14th century thanks to men like Geoffrey Chaucer who promoted the idea of courtly love and thus the history was re-written to justify the more modern conception. Nor does he want to give Ezio the details of Lupercalia, the holiday from which this saint’s day bastardization rose. He does, however, nod and say that he understands. 

“Good. I was worried I’d have to actually look it up for you.” 

“I can read for myself.” 

“Considering your handwriting, I doubt it.” 

“You try writing a codex, and we’ll see how well that goes.” 

The Italian doesn’t respond, just rolls his eyes then bids the other farewell and gives some flimsy excuse for leaving Altair on his own in the marketplace. Where he is immediately swarmed by poor women asking for money because ‘their family is sick and dying.’ A fact that they sing at him until he either runs away or gives them coins. Unfortunately for those women, he knows they don’t have families and is also saving what little coin he has. He has plans for those florins. 

* * *

 

A week later and they find themselves in Montereggioni. The Italian has dragged him to the festival in honor of the day, full of drunken revelry and Altair wants so much to hide in the shadows, but he cannot. For some strange reason, the women have taken quite a liking to the pair of them, flocking around them and fawning. He resists the urge to ram his hidden blade down one particular debutante’s throat as she giggles at Ezio, clinging to his arm. The only thing stopping him is the polite decline of her numerous offers. 

Three hours into the dancing, drinking, and socializing, he is immensely relieved when Ezio pulls him up toward the villa, through the foyer and out into the courtyard. They passed no one on their way, at least no one who would recognize them and question their departure, a fact of which Altair is grateful. 

“Mi dispiace, caro, but I did not wish to spend any longer listening to that puttana.” 

“Ezio, such gatherings have never been something I care for.” 

“This is true, old man.” 

There were moments when he would despise the nickname, but this wasn’t one of them. 

“Then why apologize, boy?” 

The moment the last word is out of his mouth, Ezio rounds on him with a look on his face that promises bruising. Of necks and hips from hands and lips, not from a shot to the vital organs from a well-aimed fist. The younger attempts to slink toward him seductively, like he’d seen some of the whores do to their clients, but his frame is too bulky - despite it’s grace, and he mostly looks like an idiot. Altair doesn’t mind, as long as that idiot is his. Which is indisputable fact at this point. 

Refusing to let Ezio carry the night too far away from it’s original purpose, Altair dances out of his way and begins to walk toward the far side of the gardens. The younger follows, scowling lightly at his Syrian ancestor. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I have something for you.” 

“Really?” Ezio is shocked, flattered, but mostly just speechless. He hadn’t been expecting the elder to actually do something about the holiday. Altair wasn’t exactly what you’d call festive. And yet here they were, at the side of the villa at Montereggioni on Valentine’s day, and Altair had gotten him a gift. 

“I know it isn’t exactly romantic, but it was one of the few things I could think of. Something you couldn’t just buy on your own. I-” 

Ezio took this to mean that _this_ , whatever it was, was his gift. He looked around, saw nothing but familiar walls, the sky, and- looking down he noticed it. Three tombstones. They all carried the same death date. The same last name. He felt his knees crumble beneath him and Altair’s arm wrapped around his shoulders as the other sank with him. He pressed his face into the other’s chest and let the sorrow pour through him. Finally let himself mourn. 

When he had collected the shreds of his dignity again, despite the soothing arms and the whispered platitudes, he could not feel _natural_ in such a state. He glanced down at the stones again, reading the inscriptions that were chosen and carved with care. 

_Petruccio Auditore_

_1463-1476_

_“A bird without feathers is still a bird. A life without love, however, is no life at all.”_  

_Federico Auditore_

_1456-1476_

_“The purpose of life is to fight maturity. Unless, of course, you are dead. Then you must laugh in your grave.”_

 

_Giovanni Auditore_

_1436-1476_

_“You have been given a life, so do something with it.”_

 

It was his family. And the words were strangely light, considering the man who ordered their creation, even if those words were stolen from memoirs and fond recollections. They were serious, certainly, as nothing the man did could lack some form of severity, but there was a playfulness there that Ezio had never seen. (Even if he was certain that the last should have ended with a ‘God damnit Ezio.’) 

“Thank you, thank you so much amore, I- I do not know what to say.” 

“Then say nothing at all. I understand.” 

“I love you.” 

Altair laughed outright, before “I love you too,” was whispered reverently into his ear. It was then that Ezio noticed the backward Arabic that scrawled across the bottom of all three stones- close enough to the ground that in days the words would be covered with grass. 

_While it is accurate to say that nothing is true and everything is permitted, there are some things that come closer to truth than others. One of those is family._  

“Not romantic, you damn sap. Merda, Altair, one of these days you really will kill me.” Altair was caught completely off guard, being somewhat confused and certainly not expecting the comment. The gratitude he had prepared for, even tears and anger and some dizzying combination of the two. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You are the biggest sap I have ever met, Altair.” 

“What did I do?” Ezio could have collapsed under the weight of his laughter at this, surely the man understood- but it was Altair, so he likely did not. Either way it was adorable. _Antisocial idiota_. 

“This,” He gestures to the tomb stones. “It’s not exactly _conventional_ , in any sense, but it’s still... sweet. Charming, in it’s own way.” He brushes a hand down the older man’s cheek, “Like you.” 

“I had not thought that burying three of your family members would be considered romantic, but I am not used to such strange ideas. We- there was little of this in Masyaf.” 

“Of course there was. Assassin’s know little other than death.” 

“Those worth their lives know something of life.” 

“Is that why you still blame yourself, love?” 

Eyes were rolled at Ezio, they’d been through this thousands of times. Still, he answered anyway. “Among other things, yes.” 

“Come,” Ezio pulled the older eagle into the villa, through the armory and to the weapon racks. He pulled a sheathed sword off the wall and presented it to the other. 

“It’s nothing like what you have given me, but, as you would not take your blade back, I... had them forge another. I-” He was going to say something along the lines of ‘I hope it’s to your liking’ but he never got that far. Altair’s lips descended on his and they were lost again. Between them gleamed the blade - simple and deadly, but with two eagles carved into the hilt. A perfect replica of the blade now at Ezio’s hip. 

“Thank you.” 

“We are pathetic, aren’t we.” 

“No one else needs to know.” 

“I like the way you think, caro.” 

The blade was discarded on the floor, and the dead left to their rest as they fled to the younger’s chambers to spend the night tangled up in one another.


End file.
